


A Good Man

by FanFictionaries



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Rough Kissing, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:07:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29054103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanFictionaries/pseuds/FanFictionaries
Summary: If Draco Malfoy was certain of one thing, it was that he was not a good man...but Hermione didn't care.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 7
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ~ WARNING ~ 
> 
> Both Draco and Hermione are of age by their world's standards (17) by the time any sexual activity occurs. Hermione is of age canonically and for the purpose of this story so is Draco. 
> 
> This is not a feel good fic. This is a very dark fic. Like the description states, Draco Malfoy is not a good man. And truthfully, Hermione's not a very good person in this either. So if you're looking for a Dramione piece where Draco is/eventually turns soft and nice and good or Hermione's innate goodness changes him, this isn't the fic for you. 
> 
> To be honest, I'm just going through a lot right now and I'm using this fic as writing therapy. 
> 
> Either way, if this feels like your cup of tea, then I hope you enjoy the journey. 
> 
> xoxo FanFictionaries

September 1st 1996

Hermione felt the jostle of the train car rock her back and forth as she tried to concentrate on her book. But try as she might, the words failed to register in her mind with ever pass of her eyes. Her sixth year at Hogwarts was about to begin and for the first time in her life she felt apprehensive about returning. Things were different. Ever since her brush with death the year before in the Department of Mysteries things seemed to hold…less appeal. Food had lost its taste. Music sounded like garbled noise in her ears. Even her books had lost the glittering appeal they’d always held. It was like a heavy blanket had been laid over the world, cutting out the light and muffling the sounds. She felt…stuck. Bored. Hermione wished she knew why – why things didn’t feel the same and why then of all times. Every year something near-cataclysmic happened, whether it be giant basilisks, dementors, or loose werewolves. And every year she walked away from it a better, stronger witch and ultimately fine. So why were things different now? It didn’t make any sense.

She got the inkling that she wasn’t the only one in her small trio that felt differently these days. Hermione had always held true to the notion that no matter what was thrown their way, Harry, Ron, and she could face it head on – because they had each other. But how do you face what she felt as a group? It felt so internal. So personal. Most of all it felt very silly, in her opinion, when looking at the bigger picture. Surely the way she felt wasn’t anywhere near to what Harry or others were going through. How do you compare stagnation to grief?

Placing her book down beside her, Hermione glanced across the compartment at Harry. There were circled under his eyes so dark they resembled the midnight sky, and his shoulders sagged like the weight of the world rested on them. In way, she supposed it did. For months she’d been trying to get him to open up to her, or anyone really, about the death of Sirius Black. His godfather. But for months he’d been distant, withdrawn, and moodier than she’d ever seen him, if it were possible. Hermione was worried it was taking a toll on his mental state. Especially now that he had a newfound obsession. Harry had spent the past week, ever since they encountered Draco Malfoy in Borgin & Burke’s, fixating on what the Slytherin could be up to. Hermione thought it was a coping mechanism. He was clearly redirecting his negative emotions and energy into something other than his real problems. In a way, Hermione didn’t blame him.

In a way, she was doing the exact same thing.

Moving her gaze over to the boy sitting next to her, Hermione rolled her lips together and let out a little breath through her nose. Ronald Weasley. Sweet, handsome, loyal Ron. Things had shifted between them too that past summer. With Harry spending a majority of the summer taking care of Sirius’s affairs and stuck with his aunt and uncle in Privet Drive, she and Ron had spent a substantial amount of time together – just the two of them. Hermione had spent hours at the Burrow walking from room to room, through the garden and the fields. She’d played chess with Ron, gossiped with Ginny, laughed at the twin’s pranks, helped Mrs. Weasley with the cooking, talked for hours about muggle items with Mr. Weasley – everything she could think of that felt normal. Everything she could think of that would force her back into a routine. But it was no use. The actions were the same. She was almost mechanical in the way that she went through the days. Smiling and talking in a way that mimicked what she should have felt. After a month Hermione concluded that routine might not be what she needed. Perhaps it was a change that she needed.

She still remembered the exact moment it had happened. Her and Ron were in the garden, weeding the vegetable patch. It was hot and they were sweaty. She’d watched as a bead of sweat rolled down the side of Ron’s neck, disappearing under the white, dirt-stained t-shirt he wore and suddenly her mouth went very dry. With her heart thudding and a certain racing in her veins she almost giggled in delight over the realization that she was _feeling._ For the first time in months she was feeling something. Ron looked over at her then, and asked if she were alright, if she needed to go inside and cool down. But Hermione wanted the exact opposite of that. She didn’t want to cool down – she wanted more of that incredible feeling. Before she could even realize what she was doing she was leaning forward and kissing him. Ron had been surprised at first but then he’d wrapped his arms around her and laid her down in the dirt between the carrots and onions as they kissed. The kiss was a bit wet and a little slow, but it was enough for her. It was enough to just feel. 

“I’m gonna go for a walk. I’ll meet you guys back here before we stop.” Harry’s voice broke Hermione from her thoughts and she looked up to see him standing by the compartment door. She nodded, eyeing the bespectacled boy suspiciously. Harry never just went for a walk on the train. He and Ron usually overindulged in sweets and talked quidditch until her ears bled. Not that there’d been much talking with the three of them in the compartment together for the last few hours.

The moment the door slid closed behind him, Hermione spoke up, “You don’t suppose he’s going to do something foolish, do you?”

“Probably—” Ron shrugged tiredly “—but you know Harry. He’s going to do what he wants to do no matter what we say.”

Hermione nodded gravely. “I know. I just—I’m worried about him.

Ron sighed in response. This was a conversation they’d had many times.

“You worry too much, ‘Mione,” said Ron, reaching a hand up and cupping her face. Ron always cupped her face when he wanted to kiss her. At first she’d found it sweet and romantic, or at least she supposed she should feel it was sweet and romantic. But now…well she found it quite predictable really. Scooting closer, she leaned into Ron’s embrace. Hermione had only had one other kissing experience before Ron and that was Viktor Krum. She remembered his kisses being too hard and stiff, treating every kiss like a quidditch drill. But Ron’s were too soft. Too timid and gentle. Like he wasn’t quite sure what to do, combined with a lack of effort. Much like his schoolwork, Hermione mused before immediately reprimanding herself for thinking such a thing while kissing him. His tongue slipped past her lips as one of his hands found her thigh and gripped her tightly.

Hermione waited. Waited for the thrill. For the rush like she’d felt the first time they’d kissed. But it never came. Instead, a very different feeling came and while it was a feeling which was better than what she usually felt, it wasn’t ideal. A heat at the back of her head rose and a twisting in her gut appeared making her feel nauseous. She often felt this way with Ron now and it killed her that in her attempt to feel something, anything, through her physical intimacy with Ron, the only feeling she could evoke was one of wrongness. After the first time the feeling arose, Hermione had pondered it until she came to the realization that it was very much like how she’d felt as a child when she did something she knew she shouldn’t. She tried to fight the feeling. Every time. While Hermione wanted so desperately to feel something, she didn’t want to feel this.

“Ron,” Hermione sighed out when he moved his lips from hers and travelled down her neck. Apparently, he hadn’t heard her because he continued to place soft kisses down to her shoulder as his thumb rubbed small circles on her thigh.

“Ron,” she said again, this time placing her hand over his and giving it a little squeeze.

Ron pulled away, breath a little heavier, but eyes honest and earnest. It broke her heart to see him look at her that way.

“Are you alright?” he asked, cupping her face once again.

Hermione swallowed thickly. “Yes, I just…I think that maybe we should stop. What if someone walks in?”

“Right, right. Yeah. Of course.” Ron pulled away, leaning back heavily in his seat. His chest rose up and down as he came down from the amp up their kissing had caused. Hermione, to her disappointment, didn’t need to come down. Her heart beat and breath came much the same as it had when she was trying to read. Steady and calm. She focused her attention on a stain on the old grey carpet floor of the train as she cursed herself. This wasn’t fair. To anyone, but especially to Ron. 

Hermione was about to apologize, the guilt building up from every time she’d made an excuse over the past two months to stop their physical relationship. But before she could even open her mouth, Ron spoke up.

“Do you—Am I not doing it right or…?”

“No! Oh no, Ron,” Hermione cried, turning to face him then and seeing the insecurity flash in his blue eyes. The guilt Hermione felt intensified ten-fold. Why was it that she could only feel guilt these days? “You’re lovely. I just don’t know if I’m ready. To take things further that is.” She bit her lip, afraid for his answer. It wasn’t a lie, really. What she’d told him was the closest to an answer she could muster up, even for herself.

Ron took a moment to think on her words before he let out a heavy breath and nodded. He turned to her and gave her a small smile. “I understand. You take as long as you need, ‘Mione. I’m not going anywhere.”

Hermione smiled back, knowing it didn’t reach her eyes. Could Ron tell too? That her smiles no longer held the same honesty that they used to? Ron reached out a hand in the space between them and Hermione took it in her own. He squeezed her fingers in a comforting fashion that did very little to bring her any actual comfort. Hermione fought the sigh trapped in her throat and she looked out the window at the grey Scottish countryside as the train blurred down the track. A little while later Ron excused himself from the compartment with words of finding the trolley, leaving Hermione now alone. While she believed him when he said he’d wait for her, she couldn’t help but find a sardonic humour in the juxtaposition of his words and the fact that she was now very much alone.

She liked alone though. She’d always liked alone. Before she’d liked alone because it meant no one would interrupt her studies, telling her that she read too much. But now she liked alone because it meant she didn’t have to pretend like nothing was wrong. The mask could fall, and she could just exist – no matter what existing meant these days.

* * *

Draco Malfoy felt irritation flow through his veins as he sat in the train car listening to the incessant chatter of Pansy Parkinson. In previous years he would have listened to her gossip, even engaged with it, but now it just felt pointless. A lot of vapid things that used to take up space in his mind felt pointless these days. The Dark Lord taking up residence in your home while your father rotted away in prison would certainly do that. Merlin, who cared about the latest fashion trends, what someone said about someone else, or who was fucking whom when there was a war brewing? Absentmindedly Draco brought a hand up to his left forearm and rubbed at the muscle beneath his robes. It ached. It always ached now. 

“And I said that if she wanted our family’s business anymore then she’d make sure to have my new robes delivered to our house by the next day. I mean how can—oh—” the train came to a jerking stop, halting Pansy’s rant as it arrived at Hogwarts station “—were here.”

“Amazing how time flies when you’ve got the loud, abrasive sound of static to fill your ears,” said Theodore Knott snidely.

Pansy made an offended sound and shot a nasty look in Theo’s direction as she stood. Theo stood as well, a small, satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he pulled his and Pany’s things from the luggage rack above. Draco made to stand as well when he noticed a flash of something on the rack as Theo pulled down his trunk. If he wasn’t mistaken, he could have sworn it looked very much like a white trainer. Suspicion creeped into Draco’s mind and he halted his actions to stand. When he failed to follow them, Pansy and Theo paused, looking back at him expectantly.

“You two go on ahead. I want to check something,” he said to them, staring out the window as if he was contemplating something. They nodded, exiting the car without question. There was certainly something of a blessing about the friends he kept – they didn’t dote or coddle like others might. They only intervened when they felt it entirely necessary and the privilege of such intervention was awarded to very few. Finally alone in the car, Draco grabbed his bag casually and walked towards the exit. But instead of leaving he slid the door to the train car closed and with a wave of his wand, the window shades descended as well, leaving him completely concealed. 

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to eavesdrop, Potter?” he asked casually, as if he was picking up a conversation that’d been interrupted by the car emptying of students. Wasting no time, he spun on his heel and pointed his wand at the luggage rack, exclaiming, “ _Petrificus totalus_!”

A large mass fell from the rack and landed in the centre aisle. A few steps towards the crumpled figure revealed his suspicions to be true. Harry Potter was petrified at his feet, half concealed by some sort of invisibility cloak. While Draco hadn’t been one hundred percent positive that it _was_ Potter, he wasn’t surprised to see him either. Only the _great_ Harry Potter, with his blind Gryffindor courage, would be stupid and confident enough to spy on him. This was a new low for Potter, he thought as he looked down at the meddlesome boy. If Draco wasn’t careful, Potter’s officious ways could very well interfere with all he had planned that year. He needed to get it through Potter’s stupid scar-faced head that Draco Malfoy wasn’t someone to be trifled with. Especially now. A flash of his father’s face appeared in Draco’s mind, gaunt and dirty as he wasted away in Azkaban, and a rage filled his body. Bringing a single polished Italian leather shoe above Potter’s face, he brought it down with force, feeling a strange mixture of sick and pleasure at the sound of breaking glass and cartilage. Lifting his foot back up, he observed the damage he’d done. Blood gushed from the black-haired boy’s now crooked nose and his glasses were snapped at the bridge, one of the lenses cracked down the middle. Draco smiled down at his handiwork for a moment before reaching down and grabbing the invisibility cloak. He observed it for a moment, wondering just where Potter could have gotten such a nice and expensive item before he swung it over his stiff, petrified body for good measure. 

“Enjoy the ride back to London,” he stated flatly before walking down the aisle and exiting to the adjoining train car. He ran a hand over his smartly styled hair, pushing a few loose strands back into place and then pulled down at the sleeve on his left arm. He was halfway down the adjoining car when a compartment to his right opened suddenly. With barely a glimpse of large bushy brown hair out of the corner of his eye, Draco had no time to dodge before the person collided with his side, knocking him off centre for a moment. Looking down in disgust he saw the figure of Hermione Granger picking up her dropped bag in a hurry. What was this? ‘The Golden Trio annoys Draco Malfoy to his last wits’ day? Was Weaselbee going to follow him up to the castle next then?

“Watch where you’re going, Granger,” he spat venomously, shoving her hard against the wall of the train’s hallway.

A small gasp escaped her lungs as she hit the wall, eyes wide. Draco waited for the inevitable response. The nagging, annoying voice of the little know-it-all telling him to be nicer or that violence was against school policy. But instead she just stood there, looking at him with an odd expression on her stupid fucking face. Finally she stuttered out, “S-sorry.”

What? The response caught him off guard. He thought he’d heard it all, but Hermione Granger apologizing to him? Never in his life. She seemed to think the same thing because a confused expression appeared on her own face.

“Whatever. Try to learn to lift your fucking head when you walk. Preferably before the Prefects meeting tonight, yeah?” he warned her coldly before storming the remainder of the car length and exiting the train. He was able to find Theo and Pansy just as they were getting in a carriage with their fellow sixth year Slytherins: Vincent Crabb, Greggory Goyle, and Blaise Zambini. Much to his distaste, Pansy positioned herself right next to him, flinging a leg over his lap leisurely. Pansy Parkinson was like a bad taste in his mouth. No matter what he did, he couldn’t get rid of her. So instead he simply put up with her in hopes that one day she’d get the bloody message and move on.

“We were just talking about how splendid it is that Professor Snape is going to be the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,” said Pansy in a smooth and devious tone. “Isn’t that wonderful, Draco?” She snuggled up to him further.

Draco rolled his eyes as he grabbed her leg and lifted it off of his lap, letting it thud back down against the carriage floor with a dull _thump_. He saw Theo and Blaise stifle a laugh out of the corner of his eye.

“Yes, I thought for sure Dumbledore would hire another Gryffindor sympathizer after last year,” Theodore Knott stated with a slight grimace.

“I think you mean Mudblood sympathizer,” chuckled Blaise. Theo laughed as well.

“Not to mention Snape always looks the other way for Slytherins. It’ll make this year a cake walk,” Goyle added with a wide grin shared by Crabb.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “You’re not even in Defense and those of us who actually passed our OWLs don’t need the help. Not all of us are complete imbeciles that need special treatment. I don’t foresee that changing any time soon,” he said sneeringly.

“Well we can’t all be precious boy geniuses like you, Malfoy,” said Blaise sarcastically.

“It’s he just?” said Pansy, voice high and condescending as if she were praising a lap dog. To further her little act, she reached a hand up to ruffle his hair. Draco stopped her before she could touch his perfectly gelled hair, gripping her wrist tightly. She let out a small whine at his grip, making more of a gripe than was necessary. However, there was nothing gentle in the way he then brought her hand back down and cast it aside. Pansy’s little whimpers of pain grated at his nerves. He sneered at the way she clutched her wrist in her lap with a pouty expression. Draco didn’t really care. She was mugging it up for attention anyways. It was a thing she liked to do when she felt like she had been slighted.

They arrived at the Great Hall a short while later, situating themselves in their usual spots at the Slytherin table. Draco had to push Pansy off of him a few times as she attempted to sit on his lap, apologizing profusely for what happened in the carriage and saying how she’d ‘make it up to him later’. Draco might have been halfway convinced she meant it if her eyes hadn’t been wandering all around them while she pawed at him, glaring dagger at the girls around them. A simpering, wanton, and willing to please woman he could deal with. An insecure one, though? He couldn’t think of anything worse. Where was Pansy’s shame?

Draco supposed he didn’t blame her. He knew that if he wanted someone, he could have them. No matter how much Pansy tried to ward the other girls off. Despite this, he didn’t let himself fall into a false narrative. He wasn’t naïve. He knew that an overwhelming amount of the attraction girls held for him came from his wealth and status. That didn’t mean he wasn’t good looking either though. A number of girls had stroked his ego when it came to his looks and he imagined that if it were untrue then they would just treat him like Blaise or Theo who were equally as rich and well respected, but not quite as handsome. But that all seemed…trivial now. He couldn’t care less about shagging his way around the castle anymore. He was more concerned with his responsibilities this year than he was with getting off.

Scanning the room with a practiced mask of boredom he spotted Granger entering the Hall late, making her way towards the Weasel and Weaselette. He watched with intrigue as she hesitated a moment before taking her seat next to the Weasel. She gave the red head a smile that disappeared the moment he looked away. How odd. Observing further, he noted the way in which the swotty girl’s eyes held a dull sheen to them, glazed over as if she had no interest for the conversation around her. Which was odd because usually if the blasted girl wasn’t talking animatedly with her little friends, then she had a book no less than two inches from her fucking face. But not now. Instead she seemed to stare without seeing at the surrounding space. What was up with Granger? Not that he cared really, but after what happened on the train with Potter he figured it was a good idea to keep tabs on anything out of place when it came to him and his little gang. They were a constant thorn in his side and if a change in their group dynamic was occurring, then he should know about it. You never knew when a chink in the strong armour of a relationship could lead to one’s own benefit. 

Shaking his head he looked away from the Gryffindor table and instead focused on all the smiling, blissfully oblivious faces in the room. Didn’t they know? Didn’t they know what was to come? Of course they didn’t. The war hadn’t started for them yet. Not really. None of them had the most feared wizards using their home as his own personal playground. No. They had no idea. They had no idea how deep the Dark Lord’s sympathizers ran in the ministry – how he planned to take over everything. Merlin, they didn’t even know that their own classmate, Draco Malfoy, _he_ , was currently sat among them, the dark mark already etched deeply into his skin.

Draco brought a hand up to grip his left forearm once again, feeling the aching muscle give very little under his touch.

Just like his father. Just like his father’s father. How it must fill them with pride – his grandfather long gone dead in his grave and his father slowly decaying in Azkaban. He shot a scathing glance over at the Gryffindor table where the ones responsible for his father’s imprisonment sat. His father had once been a man of power, sophistication, wealth, and prowess. Now he was nothing.

Soon dinner was over, and Draco was directing the new Slytherin first years to the common room in the dungeons. It didn’t take too long, but by the time he’d reached the dungeons, Draco felt the nagging call of sleep. It would have to come later though. He had a Prefects meeting to attend. Trudging back up from the dungeons, he made his way to the teacher’s lounge where Prefect meetings were held. He had just rounded a corner into a seemingly empty hallway when he found himself witness to a sight he’d rather go his whole life without seeing. Still, despite his revulsion, he couldn’t help but back around the corner and observe for a moment.

Draco really wished he couldn’t believe his eyes, but it truly came as no surprise. Wasn’t this what everyone had been creaming their knickers over since fourth year? All the gossip and dramatics and the whispers of ‘It’s going to happen eventually’. That didn’t mean it didn’t still disgust him though. It was vile really.

The Weasel and Granger were snogging.

If you could call it that. It all seemed a little too polite in his opinion to be a proper snog. Maybe neither of them knew how to do it. Surely it had to be that as Weasley was lazily leant against the wall, hands civilly holding the bushy haired girl as he placed light, soft kisses on her lips, and Granger had her eyes open. Didn’t anyone ever tell her that you were supposed to keep your eyes shut while snogging? Wait, hold on, thought Draco. Upon further inspection he realized that Granger’s eyes weren’t just open for the sake of being open, they were flitting side to side. That’s when Draco took in the rest of her – body stiff, arms placed on Weasley’s shoulders looking like it was against her better judgement, brows scrunched in a mixture of confusion. Oh Granger…poor Granger. While Draco hated the bookish little bint, he couldn’t help but feel a bit of pity. A horrid snog was still a horrid snog. Making a snap decision he rounded the corner swiftly with a plan to interrupt their little love connection.

Really it was to save him the torture of having to further watch the pathetic attempt more than anything, Draco told himself, the thought of doing a good deed for Granger’s sake making him nauseous.

“Do you two love birds mind? Last time I checked we had a meeting to attend and I won’t have it delayed on account of your tardiness,” he sneered at the couple, placing his hands casually in his pockets. The two Gryffindors pulled apart, and much to Draco’s amusement he could have sworn Granger looked relieved.

“Piss off, Malfoy,” said Weaselbee, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his robes. Charming, thought Draco dryly.

He didn’t bother responding – instead, he led the way to the teacher’s lounge with the two Gryffindors in tow. Once inside Draco gracefully draped himself over an armchair and scanned the room for any familiar faces. He noticed a few people from his classes. Millicent Bulstrode, his Slytherin Prefect counterpart, made eye contact with him from across the room and they shared a nod of acknowledgement. Other than her there was no one else worthy of his attention. So instead he focused all his attention of a small spider hanging from the ceiling in the corner as he waited for the meeting to begin. The small creature hung from its silk thread, rotating slowly before climbing back to its web near the ceiling. Draco sneered, lip curling in disgust. Didn’t anyone clean this bloody castle? 

“Good evening, Prefects,” the voice of Mrs. McGonagall brought his attention back. “Thank you all for being here on time, and may I say congratulations. For those of you who are returning, welcome back, and for those of your who are new to the position, it is nice to have you here. As I’m sure you know, gaining the rank of Prefect is both a privilege and a responsibility. You were all chosen by your head of house because you were deemed the most capable of taking on such a position. So I expect each and every one of you to behave as such.” 

It was all the same boring shite as last year. Malfoy could have yawned. In fact, he did, tilting his head back in an exaggerating fashion and not even bothering to cover his mouth as he inhaled deeply and followed the action with an uninterested sniff. He didn’t even want to be a Prefect again, but mother had insisted it was good to keep up appearances. Plus it gave him free reign to be out after hours—time and seclusion were valuable currency these days.

“Now in the past, patrols have been done in pairs, those pairs being of the same house. However, the Headmaster has deemed it both necessary and highly important to instil more house unity this year—” Draco perked up at McGonagall’s words “—Therefore, you will now be paired at random for your patrols.”

There was a uniform grumble from the Prefects in the room. Draco was sure a majority of the protests were because no one wanted to be paired with a Slytherin, but if he wasn’t too thrilled about it either. For some reason, a night spent wandering the hallways with Ernie MacMillan didn’t sound like his idea of a good time. At least Bulstrode kept her yap shut and let him complete the task in peace.

“Now, now. Quiet down. I said quiet!” Professor McGonagall raised her voice above the sea of complaining students. Everyone went silent, the formidable woman able to strike fear into the hearts of even the bravest of wizards. “Really, I am disappointed in you all. You are _Prefects_ , for Merlin’s sake. You are supposed to be the best of your peers, and therefore it is your responsibility to act as model students through your good deeds and good faith in each other.”

A majority of the Prefects looked down, shamefaced by their professor’s words. Draco thought it was a load of shit. Good deeds and faith indeed. He’d surely suck Salazar Slytherin’s cock before he put good faith in Ronald Weasley.

“Now, patrol schedules will be sent to you tomorrow morning by the Heads. Please head back to your dormitories, you’re dismissed,” McGonagall finished, giving them all stern looks as the students filed out.

Doing the math in his head as he headed back to his common room with Bulstrode and the four other Slytherin Prefects in tow, Draco made the annoying realization that he’d be paired up for patrols with the Gryffindors at least twice, and at least once for a Hogwarts weekend. Joy.

Maybe if he were lucky he’d end up committing more than one murder his sixth year.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll get more Hermione perspective in future chapters, but for now the Draco sections happen to just be longer. 
> 
> Also, if anyone's interested in Beta-ing, let me know! I try to edit myself as best as possible, but things do get missed! You'll get to read the chapters early and perhaps have some input on the story if you'd like. 
> 
> xoxo

September 16th 1996

There was something wrong with her.

Something inexplicably and undeniably wrong, thought Hermione as she strode away from the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Harry and Ron flanked her, but Hermione made sure to keep a few paces ahead of them so as to fully conceal her face from them, her hair shrouding her in a curly curtain. She couldn’t risk them seeing her full on, because if they did they might read her as easily as she read her precious books. And if they did…

Something had been wrong with her for nearly four months, that much she knew. But the overwhelming apathy she’d developed seemed like nothing compared to what had bloomed from it. Never had she questioned herself more than right then as she attempted to put as much distance between herself and the events that had occurred in their Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson.

Defense had started out macabre, as usual. Professor Snape’s flair for the dramatics was not just confined to the dungeons, they learned from their very first lesson with him that term. It wasn’t merely the dim lighting or morbid paintings hung around the room. Professor Snape brought a certain severity to defense against the foulest of magics. As a result, Hermione felt herself drawn to the subject more than ever.

A part of her had dismissed her general lack of interest in her summer studies to merely a slump, convincing herself that once she got back into the routine of attending classes, learning, and studying she’d once again find her passion for all knowledge. She’d been wrong, however. A majority of her courses that Fall term seemed more like busy work than anything she actually wanted to learn. Hermione wanted to learn something useful. Not that the subjects of her courses didn’t have use. But their subject matter was directed towards things she’d need in a future career, not the war that waged in the wizarding world. Didn’t her professors realize that soon enough transfiguring parakeets into pencils and arithmetic equations wouldn’t do them any good in the inevitable fight against Voldemort? The only courses she genuinely took any interest in now were Potions, Ancient Runes, and Defense Against the Dark Arts. Which was why Professor Snape’s approach to teaching them defense was so appealing to her. He was direct. Harsh. Grave. He took the subject seriously, and he dedicated the second half of every class to practical application. This usually meant duelling practice and it was the only time of the week Hermione felt halfway present.

That day they’d been practicing their nonverbal spells once again.

Sneeringly mentioning how the class had performed less than acceptable the previous week, Professor Snape announced he would be assigning duelling partners, in order to ‘raise the stakes a bit’. Hermione was unfortunately paired with Blaise Zambini. While less than thrilled, the two of them had never been directly at odds with each other, therefore it took Hermione quite by surprise when the Slytherin boy sent a stinging hex her way before Professor Snape even instructed them to begin. The puckish glint in his eye paired with the cruel smile on his full lips told her it had not been an accident. She should have been the bigger person. It was expected of her to be the bigger person. But with a stinging left thigh and an equally stinging pride, Hermione sent a knockback jinx in Zambini’s direction so powerful it sent him flying clear across the room and into the wall with a hard _thud_.

Gasps of surprise sounded throughout the room as students turned in shock at the commotion. A mix of Slytherin outcries and Gryffindor laughter filled the room. Hermione’s cheeks heated in a brilliant flush, but not in embarrassment. Instead her body hummed, a tiny spark of _feeling_ she’d been searching for, for months making an appearance for the first time since her first kiss with Ron. But that wasn’t the reason Hermione felt like something was wrong with her – it was certainly a part of it, but it barely compared to what happened after.

Upon seeing Zambini hit the classroom wall and crumple like ragdoll, skin a pale version of its previous rich dark umber, Draco Malfoy turned on her.

“You, vicious little bitch,” he seethed from nearby, having only been placed a few students away to duel with Seamus Finnigan.

He lifted his wand then, pointing it straight at her and sending a hex her way, perfectly wordless. Hermione let out a small yelp and blocked it with an equally silent shield charm. The deep red light that expelled from the end of his wand hit the surface of her shield charm, absorbing into the wavy clear surface. Hermione felt a small hiccup in her chest as the shield charm dissipated once the spell vanished. Malfoy didn’t seem fazed by her ability to block his spell though. He wasted no time in sending another hex her way which Hermione blocked again. He took several steps in her direction and Hermione moved in tandem, keeping the distance between them as she skittered backwards through the throngs of peers and desks. The space around her flashed red, green, and purple as Malfoy threw hex after jinx at her. Parchment and quills flew through the air from rouge spells, Hermione dodging and blocking each one in succession.

She dodged a particularly close and nasty-looking hex just as she reached the teacher’s desk, but only just in time to catch a second, even quicker, _Incarerous_ to her right hip. Thick ropes materialized, quickly wrapping around her torso, and encasing her arms and legs. They tightened, violently, forcing her down to her knees. She hit the stone ground hard, feeling her kneecaps bruise instantly. Hermione flexed her limbs under the ropes, attempting to break free. But it was no use. They only tightened, digging painfully into her flesh through the fabric of her school uniform. Hermione gasped in response.

Unable to move, all she could do was watch as Malfoy approached her, stone faced with a cold fire burning behind his eyes. He looked larger from her new angle on the floor. Taller. Imposing. Dangerous. He looked ready to kill and to Hermione’s surprise she found humour in the fact that if he succeeded, he’d look bored stiff doing it.

The ropes wrapped tighter around her, pushing the air through her lungs as Malfoy reached her bound body. Devoid of oxygen, little white stars began to form in her vision, eventually mixing with black globular shapes. The increasing pressure of the ropes sent her heartrate soaring and soon all sounds but the steady _thump, thump, thump_ of her heart faded away. Now fully before her, Malfoy lowered his wand level with her eyes, letting it linger for a moment before descending further, pressing the wooden tip into the soft fleshy skin under her chin. Almost as if he were putting on a show just for her. He wanted to hurt her, she could tell, but he also wanted to scare her.

But Hermione wasn’t scared. She did not cower or look away. She couldn’t even if she wanted to. All she could do was stare back at him, into his molten eyes – so hot and full of hate. Malfoy dug the tip of his wand harder into her skin, a further attempt to scare her perhaps. To drive home the fact that she was at his mercy. But all it did was elicit an intensity that buzzed through her veins. And oh was it good.

It was the most Hermione had felt in four long months. More than when Blaise had hit her with the stinging hex. More than when she’d heard the crack of his head against the wall. More than when she’d laid down in the vegetable patch of the Burrow and shared her first kiss with Ron.

So intense was the feeling, Hermione couldn’t stop the rush of euphoria it produced. She fought to keep the smile tugging at the corner of her lips down, hoping no one could see the strange internal battle she was fighting. Malfoy must have though, because he faltered, the heat in his eyes abating by just the smallest amount as his wand hand waivered. His hesitation was just enough time for Harry and Ron to reach them, the former tackling Malfoy as Ron stepped in front of her, acting as a shield as he attempted to rip the ropes from around her.

She knew that Harry would have killed Malfoy right then, he might not have even felt guilty about it either, if Professor Snape hadn’t stepped in. With an unamused flourish of his wand, the oily man sent the Harry and Malfoy flying away from each other. Turning to her, he vanished the ropes and declared that class was over on account of their inability to follow simple instructions.

Ten points from Gryffindor and a thirteen-inch essay on the theory and importance of silently cast spells for the whole class.

Truly it could have been worse. Or at least that’s what she told Harry and Ron as they coddled her out of the classroom and all the way to the Great Hall for lunch.

“I’m so sorry, Hermione—” began Harry, catching up to her side.

“We really should have gotten to you sooner,” finished Ron, reaching her side as well.

“It all just happened so quickly.”

“Yeah. One minute we saw Zambini on the ground and the next Draco had you on the ground too.”

Hermione neglected to chime in on their angry and apologetic rant. Instead, her brain operated at peak speed, attempting to process what her best friends had just said. Had it really all happened so quickly? wondered Hermione. It seemed like forever in her memory. Every moment had dragged by in a dream-like sequence. Perhaps it was the lack of oxygen to blame or the adrenaline of it all, but surely it couldn’t have only been a few moments.

“We shouldn’t have even let him throw a single spell at you.”

“Slimy fucking ferret. I’ll kill him,” spat Ron.

“Not if I don’t kill him first,” agree Harry.

“Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital wing?” asked Ron for the fifth time since they’d left the classroom. He reached a hand up to feel her forehead as if a conjugation spell could somehow give someone a fever.

Hermione swatted his hand away in annoyance, trying her best to school her expression into something other than delight. “Yes, Ronald. I’m sure. Honestly, you’re acting like I haven’t faced worse than _Malfoy,_ ” she scoffed with a huff. The scar covering her ribs, just under her heart, tingled. Phantom tremors of magic from the near deadly compression curse Dolohov had sent her way in the Department of Mysteries only a few months ago. Absentmindedly she touched it through her sweater, bringing her hand down quickly when she felt the rapid thump of her heart under her fingertips. Calm down Hermione, she told herself taking a deep breath as they neared the Great Hall. But truthfully she didn’t want to calm down. Everyone expected her to be shaken. Scared. But Hermione was far from it. She felt good. She felt…alive.

“I can’t believe Professor Snape didn’t expel Malfoy right then. He tried to kill you, Hermione!” seethed Harry from her other side.

“Please, expel his favourite little ferret? Fat chance,” sneered Ron.

“Just let it go, please,” Hermione pleaded, knowing that if she acted embarrassed they’d drop the subject. “It was mortifying enough. I don’t need you two dragging it out.”

The pair went quiet after that, walking silently all the way to lunch. In a way, Hermione did feel embarrassed. But surely not for the reasons she should. A normal witch would feel embarrassed about accidentally maiming their classmate. A normal witch would feel embarrassed about having to run for their life from their other classmate. A normal witch would feel embarrassed about being bested by said other classmate. But as Hermione remembered the feeling of the rope around her body and the cool wood of Malfoy’s wand under her chin, the only embarrassment she felt was over how badly she wanted it to happen again. To feel that rush again. 

She’d come close to the feeling before. On the train to Hogwarts when she ran into Malfoy in the car hallway. He’d pushed her so hard her teeth had clacked together when she hit the wall. Hermione had waited to feel the normal emotions in that moment – anger, indignation, fear. But instead all she had felt was a shocking pulse in her veins – very much like the first time she kissed Ron. It took her by such surprise that she’d actually apologized to Malfoy. And she’d meant it.

Something was definitely wrong with her.

* * *

**_Dearest Draco,_ **

**_I hope that your school year is going well. The house feels lonelier without you in it. Although I’m still blessed with extra company to help distract from you and your father’s absence. I just wish they’d clean up after themselves a bit. It’s quite the mess._ **

**_I’ve included some extra galleons for your first Hogsmeade weekend as well as some of those sweets you like from that shop in Paris. Let me know if you are in need of anything else, you know that I am always here for anything you need._ **

**_I hope your extra credit project this year is progressing to your satisfaction. It’s very important that you do well on it – it was very kind of your father’s associate to consider you for an internship based off of the results. Especially given your father’s current predicament. If you find yourself stuck I’m sure your head of house, Severus, would be more than willing to help._ **

**_Love,_ **

**_Mum_ **

**_P.S. Don’t forget to wrap that lovely necklace you purchased for your Aunt’s Christmas present. I know it’s a bit early, but you can never be too proactive. Best to get it out of the way now._ **

Draco read and reread the crumpled parchment for what felt like the millionth time that day. Every time it produced the same emotions – anger, frustrations, _hate_. So much hate. Hot and acrid like bile on his tongue. To anyone else the letter from his mother would seem benign enough. Even if suspicious eyes fell upon the page they might not be able to pull anything useful from it or at the very least nothing they could use as valid proof. But he knew what the words meant. The Dark Lord and all his followers were still in their home, defiling it with their presence and their actions.

The thought of his mother there, with them, without him to protect her, made him sick. How many times had he turned a corner to see Carrow or Gibbon standing too close to his mother, caging her in with a hand clasped around her wand arm. You’d think as it was _their_ house, their _guests_ would have a bit more respect, but his father’s absence left some thinking they could take certain liberties. And it was exceedingly difficult to convince them otherwise when the Dark Lord had made sure that he and his father garnered very little respect. 

_Screams echoed through the foyer of Malfoy Manor. Gut-wrenching cries of agony from a young boy filled Draco’s ears and he kept wondering why the boy didn’t just stop. Didn’t he know it was a sign of weakness to scream? It was better to keep quiet, to take the punishment in stride. It took another scream tearing through the room for Draco to realize that it was him who was screaming._

_Pain unlike anything he’d ever experienced radiated through him body, deep into his bones. It felt like his skin and muscles were slowly being peeled away from the bones of his body, leaving him open, raw, and bare. So much pain. So much. His vision blurred, the room around him going in and out of focus. A hand he recognised as his own stretched out on the floor before him, so pale it blended into the white marble giving the impression that he was dissolving into it. Slowly, becoming a part of the floor, becoming something to merely walk on. A surface for the Dark Lord to wipe his feet._

_With a final bout of blistering pain, it stopped. The pain was gone, but Draco’s body still shook, ravaged by the aftershock of such intense agony. As he slowly gathered his wits, mind relinquished from its prison of anguish, Draco became aware of certain things. Like the rawness in his throat, torn bloody from his screams. The taste of metal from where he’d bitten his tongue swirled in his mouth. His fingernails were cracked, chipped, and bloody, leaving streaks of red across the white marble from where he’d clawed at the ground, searching for purpose in his misery._

_“You see, my friends,” said the white whispery voice of the Dark Lord above him. He walked barefoot across the marble, each step a show of grandeur. “When you fail me, you fail us all. You are not the only ones who must pay for your mistakes. Lucius failed us. He failed you—” the pale, creature-like man pointed at the crowd in the room “—he failed me—” he pointed to himself “—he failed his wife—” he pointed to Draco’s mother, currently on her knees between two members of the Dark Lord’s party, wand at her throat “—and he failed his son.”_

_The Dark Lord stepped up to him then, his bare feet stopping short of Draco’s face. Draco wanted more than anything to sit up in that moment. To push up onto his hands and then to stand. To show his strength. To show that he wasn’t weak like the dark wizard had just made him. But he couldn’t. Try as his mind might, it wouldn’t make his body move. He felt paralyzed – by pain, by fear._

_“Our dear Draco must face the consequences of his father’s failure as Lucius is not here to accept the punishment himself. I was, you see—” the Dark Lord turned then, stepping away from Draco “—to be his mother who paid the price. But Draco so_ bravely _volunteered in her place.”_

_A short, mechanical sound fell from the wizard’s lips and Draco realized with horror that it was laughter. He was laughing._

_A few chuckles joined the Dark Lord’s laughter but were cut short when the maniac of a man ceased his laugh and took on a more serious tone._

_“Now!” he yelled. “I think as a reward for his actions, our young Draco here should be allowed to redeem himself. Don’t you think?”_

_A murmur of agreement sounded throughout the room. Draco spotted Blaise Zambini standing near the fireplace, a few paces away from Draco’s mother. Blaise silently nodded in agreement, but instead of looking pleased and manic like the Dark Lord’s other followers, he seemed solemn. His face a hard mask. He shifted his gaze down to Draco, their eyes locking for just a moment. It wasn’t long, but Draco knew that Blaise was trying to give him strength. To give him reassurance._

_“Stand, Draco.”_

_It was an easier thing to say than do, thought Draco as he lay on the floor, body having gone stiff and cold. But, fuelled by fear of what might happen if he didn’t, Draco moved. It took longer than he liked, but soon he was standing on his feet once again, body swaying slightly as he breathed heavily._

_It took all his strength not to flinch when the Dark Lord approached him and laid a hand on his arm._

_“I have a special assignment for you, Draco,” whispered the Dark Lord. “One that if you complete successfully, will make me very,_ very _pleased. As I’m sure you know, Albus Dumbledore has been quite the annoyance to me, and Draco here is still in school with him—” he was no longer speaking to Draco, once again turned to his enrapt audience “—I think that is an advantage to us. I’ve decided that Draco will kill the old man for me this year while at school.”_

_Draco couldn’t help the small gasp of surprise that left his lungs. But no one heard as a chorus of cheers and laughter sounded throughout the room. His aunt, Bellatrix, seemed extremely pleased at the concept._

_“I know, I know,” said the vile wizard, voice sounding oddly gleeful. “And once he’s exceeded, he will grant us access to the school and we control it once and for all! The way we should have all along.”_

_More cheers followed._

_“But first—” the Dark Lord turned to Draco, grabbing his left forearm, and pushing up his sleeve “—I believe Draco deserves a proper introduction.”_

_No. No, no, no, thought Draco as he realized what was about to happen._

_“After all, if he’s going to do the job, he should wear the uniform.”_

_The Dark Lord placed the tip of his wand upon the skin of Draco’s forearm and then there was pain. Only pain._

Draco clenched the letter in his hand, the parchment creasing and folding into a worn and tired pattern formed from clasping it tightly in his fist and smoothing it out over and over again.

**_If you find yourself stuck I’m sure your head of house, Severus, would be more than willing to help._ **

Draco scoffed. The last thing he wanted was Severus Snape’s help. This was his task and his alone. If he didn’t prove himself, then who knew what would become of him and his family.

Glancing down at the unconscious form of my friend in the hospital bed, Draco cursed himself. He was supposed to be keeping a low profile. Go to class. Do your work. Complete your task. That was the agenda for the year, and he had already diverted from it. But still, the fucking bitch had given Blaise a concussion. A nasty one at that from what Madame Pomfrey said. He’d heard the sickening crack as Blaise hit the wall, seen his lifeless body, and let the anger overtake him. All he could think of was the look Blaise gave him in the foyer of his home, how he’d given him what silent strength he could. He’d be remiss if he didn’t in some way return the favor.

The fury in his body released like a tightly wound spring and all he’d felt was hate, hate, _hate._

He’d been ready to kill her. He wanted to kill. It’d been so fucking satisfying to see her run from him and then fall to her knees in defeat. But then she’d looked at him. Looked him in the eye and he’d seen…happiness. No, happiness wasn’t the right word. It was more like anticipation. Eagerness. Excitement. Like it was all a game, and she couldn’t wait to find out what happened next. 

“Waiting at my bedside like a forlorn lover?” croaked Blaise, bringing Draco from his thoughts.

Draco looked up, seeing Blaise push himself into a sitting position.

“Please, you’d be so lucky to have me fuck you,” scoffed Draco, staring hard at his friend for any signs of pain.

Blaise gave a little laugh. “As if I’d be the catcher.”

“You have before,” said Draco with a smirk.

“Piss off,” said Blaise, but smiling all the same.

“How do you feel?”

“Really good actually,” said Blaise in astonishment. “Madame Pomfrey must have given me something for the pain. I’m practically flying over here.”

Draco raised an eyebrow curiously, now realizing that Blaise looked a little glassy-eyed and his words were a tad slow.

“What happened?” asked Blaise, settling into his pillows further.

“You don’t remember?” questioned Draco.

Blaise let out short gust of air through his nose. “I remember that Granger bint blasting me backwards two ways from Sunday, and then getting knocked out of course. But I mean, after. What happened after? I can’t imagine that little stunt went without quite the reaction.” Blaise smiled then, broadly, as if the idea of a spectacle revolving around him was pleasing.

Draco rolled his lips together before swiping his tongue along the lower one. He worried the parchment between his hands and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees before he answered, “I um, I may have tried to kill her.” 

“Seriously?” asked Blaise in surprise.

“Yeah, I called her a vicious little bitch and then she started running. I managed to get her with the Incarcerous Spell and had my wand under her at her neck before Potter and Weasley tackled me. Otherwise I’d most likely be in Azkaban right now,” he admitted casually. He ran his tongue over the gums behind his back molars, his jaw working back and forth in the process.

Blaise laughed again. “Why, I’m touched, Draco. Didn’t know you’d defend my honour like that.”

“Piss off.” It was Draco’s turn to laugh.

They sat there for a while longer, discussing classes and arguing over whether Draco would take notes for him or not the next day while Blaise milked his injury. Finally, with the sun beginning to sink low in the sky, darkening the room, Blaise gave a long yawn and Draco stood to leave. He was just turning, having given his goodbye when Blaise spoke again, his voice turned suddenly grave. 

“You wouldn’t have done it, you know.”

Draco turned back, giving his friend a confused look. “What?”

“Kill Granger, you wouldn’t have done it.”

“Oh really? What makes you say that?” asked Draco his tone light, but his body tense.

Blaise scoffed as if the answer was obvious. “You’ve got one of these, you dolt,” he said, tapping lazily at his temple.

“What? A fucking brain?” Draco chuckled.

Blaise shook her head side to side. “A conscience,” he responded firmly.

His answer hit Draco hard, gut clenching like Blaise had physically punched him. They stared hard at each other, engaged in a battle of wills. Blaise with the intent to get his message across and Draco with the intent to get his friend to realize he was wrong. In the end, Draco lost. He swallowed thickly, looking away from Blaise and letting out a small chuckle that he hoped came off more casual than affected.

“How much of that pain medication did Madame Pomfrey give you?” he asked, refusing to acknowledge Blaise’s statement directly.

“Enough, apparently,” laughed Blaise, following Draco’s lead. “I really should ask her what potion it is though. Wouldn’t mind having it again in the future.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.” Draco shook his head. Fucking junky, he thought as he turned once again and headed towards the doors.

“I want those notes on my bed by end of tomorrow, Malfoy!” yelled Blaise after him.

Draco didn’t bother turning around. Instead he continued casually towards the doors, lifting a hand, and flipping Blaise off over his shoulder earning him another laugh from his friend.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting into the thick of it now. Also, longer Hermione section this go around. 
> 
> xoxo

September 20th 1996

Blaise’s words stuck with Draco longer than he liked. They itched in the back of his mind like a festering scab. The flesh of his consciousness rotting away from the infectious sentiment.

A conscience. Him. Fucking ridiculous.

He had half a mind to punch Blaise in his stupid fucking face. He didn’t when Blaise had first said it. Something about punching a friend while he was down seemed a bit beneath him. He had some decorum of course. Pureblood etiquette and all. Plus, the berk was so hopped up on pain potion, he probably wouldn’t have even felt it. But now, nearly a week later, Blaise was out of the hospital and for all intents and purposes, completely fine. Therefore Draco was free to beat the shit out of him at will. 

Draco Malfoy did not have a fucking conscience.

Having a conscience implied not just that he had the ability to discern from right and wrong, which he did, but that he felt inclined to _do_ the right thing as well, which he did not. The only time Draco ever did the right thing was if it also benefited himself. And in those situations, any good deed done was merely an unintentional product of an inherently selfish act. He wasn’t a monster; he didn’t go out of his way to kick babies or string up dead animals in the Forbidden Forest. Draco simply didn’t see the point of doing something good if it didn’t do anything for him. The whole concept of doing things for others without expecting anything in return had never really registered in his mind.

In his opinion, people who did the right thing without reward were either stupid, or they liked the way being a “good” person made them feel. Which in a way, was just as bad as never doing anything nice for anyone. Doing a good deed for self-gratification did not a good man make.

So no. Draco Malfoy was not a good man. Or even a decent man. And most importantly, he did not have a _fucking conscience._

Blaise could go fuck himself.

Sitting down at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall for breakfast that Friday morning, Draco poured himself a large cup of coffee. He gulped it down, giving it no time to cool, and as a result scalded his mouth and throat as it slid past his lips and into his stomach. Draco didn’t care though. The need to taste and enjoy food wasn’t exactly on the top of his list these days and he had more important things to focus on. Top of his list currently was the vanishing cabinet.

He’d worked on it the night before, holed up in the Room of Requirements till trying to get the blasted thing to work. The vanishing cabinet was in much worse state than he remembered. When the idiot Weasley twins shoved Montague through the year before, he’d told Draco that he’d been trapped in some type of limbo. Only through apparition was he able to escape and that had resulted in him stuck in the U-bend of a toilet. Draco thought that would be complicated enough to fix. Clearly Peeves had done a number on it. But somewhere in the process of moving it from the first floor of the castle to the Room of Requirement it had been damaged further. Now it didn’t send anything anywhere. Countless times he’d placed items inside of the vanishing cabinet, closed the door and opened it to find them where he’d left them. By the time he found his way out, deciding to give up for the night, the sun was already rising, and classes were due to start in a few hours. So, instead of a long sleep, he got a cold shower, a fresh change of clothes and a searing cup of average-tasting coffee in an almost empty Great Hall. 

Draco sighed, pouring himself another cup, and relishing in the burn as it once again scalding his mouth and throat. He set his cup down on the table and stared at the food before him. He should eat something. He’d skipped dinner the night before to work on the cabinet and his stomach was beginning to twist and ache. Reaching forward for a piece of toast with his left arm, Draco faltered when he felt the all too familiar aching in the limb. He brought his arm back to his lap and rubbed at the muscle under the table.

Stupid fucking thing, thought Draco, digging his thumb into the tense and tender flesh. He hadn’t been prepared for the pain it caused. The Dark Mark. No one warned him about the agonizing burn of the Dark Lord’s wand pressed firmly into his forearm. No one warned him how it would feel like the blood in his veins was extracted and replaced with boiling oil. And no one bothered to tell him how it would continue to ache months after he received it.

His father had a mark. He’d had one his entire life from what Draco could remember. But never once had he seen his father touch his arm in discomfort or wince in pain. Maybe he was just tougher, thought Draco bitterly.

Standing abruptly, Draco sent a scornful look at the food on the table. He wasn’t hungry anymore. He grabbed his bag, making to exit the Great Hall and find something to preoccupy his time before classes when he heard his name being called. He turned back towards the teacher’s table.

“Mr. Malfoy,” said Professor McGonagall curtly, sending him one of her trademark no-nonsense looks. Her emerald velvet robes trailed behind her, giving her a sense of power as she walked through the Great Hall towards him. “Can I have a word with you in my office, _please_?”

She said please, but the way in which she said it led Draco to believe it was more of a formality than an actual request. Draco nodded, allowing the older witch to pass before he followed behind her. His palms began to sweat as he wondered just what the woman could possibly want to talk to him about at such an early hour. It couldn’t possibly be his grades. He’d been keeping those up. And he’d been following through with his Prefect duties. Business as usual, just as his mother instructed.

They were halfway down the line of tables when Professor McGonagall stopped abruptly. Draco had to pull short to keep from running into her and when he realized who she’d stopped for, the whole reason she wanted to speak to him became blatantly clear.

“Ms. Granger, would you mind accompanying me and Mr. Malfoy to my office before morning classes?” asked McGonagall, in a much kinder tone than she’d used when she asked _him_ to go to her office.

Granger looked up from the porridge she’d been idly stirring, spoon fall into the grey mush. She looked between Professor McGonagall and then himself for a moment and then nodded silently, grabbing her bookbag and standing. Draco had never seen the witch so devoid of emotion. He imagined that being asked to speak to a professor in their office would usually garner one of two reactions from the eager witch: 1) complete emotional breakdown at the thought of being in trouble, or 2) ecstasy at the prospect of being awarded for some accomplishment. But instead she’d followed their Transfiguration teacher like she was simply headed to the loo.

Not just that, but she had been alone. No Potter or Weasley flanked at her sides. Even the Weaselette and that Longbottom dolt were nowhere to be seen. How very strange.

When they reached Professor McGonagall’s office, the three of them stepped inside, Draco and Granger taking seats in the two armchairs their profession conjured. Draco couldn’t help but notice that his seat was a bit stiff and wondered if she’d done that on purpose. There was a long, pregnant pause as the severe witch assessed them both from behind her desk, hands clasped in a steeple. She took a deep breath in through her nose and then back out.

“I’ve been made aware by Professor Snape that an altercation occurred between the two of you in your Defense Against the Dark Arts class, earlier this week. Is that correct?” asked Professor McGonagall, sending Draco a sharp look as if she expected him to deny her allegations.

Draco chose to remain quiet, feeling his chances were better if he kept silent until he really needed to speak. He’d let Granger do all the talking. She was particularly good at it. You never could get the bitch to shut up anyway.

Granger, however, merely nodded her head.

Professor McGonagall was clearly not pleased with this response because she gave them both another hard look.

“As your head of house, Hermione, Professor Snape found it pertinent that I be made aware of the seriousness of this event. However, what he detailed does not sound like the young witch that I’ve come to know over six years—”

Draco snorted, unable to help himself. Of course Granger’s reputation as Gryffindor’s _fucking_ princess would keep her out of any real trouble.

Professor McGonagall shot him a warning look before continuing, “Now, I have a pretty good idea of what happened on Monday, but I’d like to hear from both of you.”

There was silence again as Professor McGonagall waited for them to respond. Draco waited as well, still determined to keep his mouth shut until he’d been formally accused of anything.

Finally, Granger spoke, “Well, you see, Professor…we were to be practicing our silent spellcasting with each other. I was paired with Blaise Zambini and before we were instructed to begin, his wand accidentally fired while he was practicing what spell he was going to use. An unintentionally cast spell. It’s quite common when first practicing silent spellcasting. The spell hit me and at the time I thought he did it on purpose. I was angry so I retaliated with my own spell. I’d read that casting spells silently can dampen them, so it’s important to put more force behind your spell. Well, I must have overcompensated because it sent Zambini flying across the room.”

At that statement, Granger looked down at her lap in a guilty fashion. Draco was looking at her now. Fully looking at her like she was a one-eyed banshee doing a tap dance. He knew that Blaise hadn’t “accidentally” sent that stinging hex. And he also knew that Granger knew that. So why was she lying? McGonagall must have been thinking the same thing because she was also looking at Granger with scepticism.

“And what—” Professor McGonagall narrowed her eyes “—about the events that occurred after? A few of your fellow students claim that Mr. Malfoy _attacked_ you.”

“No,” said Granger calmly, looking up from her lap in a casual manner. “Malfoy didn’t _attack_ me. He was just…defending his friend.”

What? If Draco hadn’t been confused before, he surely was after that. Why, in Merlin’s name, was she covering for him? He’d tried to bloody well murder her! He didn’t like this. She may have saved him the wrath of McGonagall and a week or two of detention, but he still didn’t like it. The haughty little Gryffindor was obviously up to something.

“Are you sure, Miss Granger?” asked Professor McGonagall.

Granger nodded.

“And you, Mr. Malfoy—” McGonagall turned her gaze to him “—you’ve been exceptionally quiet. Did the events that transpired go as Miss Granger says they did?”

“Exactly as she said, Professor,” responded Draco slowly, schooling his features back into a cool exterior.

Professor McGonagall pursed her lips and took another deep breath. “Well then,” she said. “Regardless, as I’m sure you’re both aware you two are paired to patrol the corridors this evening. In light of these actions, however, I would understand if you would prefer a change of partners.”

She looked at Granger when she said this. A fact that made Malfoy bristle slightly under his casual façade. Clearly, the older woman didn’t believe either of them and was trying to give Granger some kind of out. What? Did she think he’d threatened the girl into staying silent? Draco didn’t have time for threats these days. He’d much rather commit the act of violence and get the point across than bother with threatening someone. Threats give people room to test you. Actions show people that you won’t be tested.

“That won’t be necessary, Professor.”

“Really?” asked Draco, before he could stop himself. At the very least he expected the girl to take the opportunity to _not_ have to spend an evening with him wandering the castle halls. If given the choice, he’d take it.

Hermione glanced at him, looking tired. There was a lifelessness to her eyes that caught him off guard. It was so different to the fire he’d seen earlier than week when he had her down on her knees before him. She looked away almost as quickly as she had stared in his direction, addressing their teacher as if she’d been the one to ask the question, “Yes. Like you said at the beginning of term, as Prefects we should be exemplifying house unity and cooperation. We wouldn’t really be doing that if we opted out of our duties over a small argument. Not to mention, it would be more of a hassle for the Heads to change the schedule around.”

McGonagall stared at the bushy-haired girl for a moment in deep contemplation and then swiftly back at Draco before responding, “Alright. If you say so. But be advised that I will _not_ have any more _arguments_ between the two of you. If you’d pulled that stunt in my classroom the two of you would surely receive a month’s worth of detention.”

Draco and Granger nodded.

“You’re dismissed,” said McGonagall curtly and began shuffling piece of parchment around her desk.

They exited McGonagall’s office, Granger speeding past him and down the corridor. Clearly she was trying to put as much space between herself and him as possible and doing a valiant job at that. Draco, however, for as little as he said in their meeting had a lot to say to Granger. He caught up to the witch with almost zero effort, his long legs and even longer stride carrying him down the corridor, around the corner to Granger’s side before she could escape him.

The corridors were still fairly empty thanks to the early hour and so Draco gave no second thought to grabbing Granger roughly round the arm and dragging her into the nearest alcove. 

“What the fuck are you playing at Granger?” he asked seethingly, pushing her hard against the stone wall. Shrouded from the morning light pouring through the windows, Draco glared down at the Gryffindor witch. Despite the alcove casting they two of them in deep shadow, Draco say the fiery glint return to Granger’s eyes. 

“What?” she asked him dumbly, eyes fiery but mind distracted. Draco rolled his eyes. Her overtly large brain must be such a waste on her if she spent more than half her time distracted by thought. 

He shook her, pushing her harder into the wall in an attempt to get her attention. It seemed to do the trick because her eyes refocused, staring straight into his own. “I said, what’s your fucking angle, Granger? You covered for me in there. I want to know why.”

“Is this how you thank people when they save your arse, Malfoy?” she bit back, a hint of laughter behind her words.

“Only when I suspect they’re up to something. So, what is it? Trying to make nice with the Slytherin to get information for your _Saint_ Potter? Is that it? Hmm?—” Draco spotted a subtle movement out of the corner of his eye and acted, pulling out his own wand to once again aim under her chin “—I wouldn’t pull your wand on me if I were you, Granger. You don’t really have the upper hand here, do you?”

“I wasn’t—” Granger flicked her tongue out to wet her bottom lip, catching Draco’s attention for just a moment “—my bag is falling off my shoulder. And I’m not trying to get information out of you for Harry. Not _everything_ is about him.”

There was an edge to her voice that peeked Draco’s curiosity. Did he detect a tiny bit of resentment? Anger?

“Isn’t it?” he asked casually, twisting his wand in his hand to dig further into her flesh. He could do it. He’d been so close the last time he had her like this. At his mercy. They’d had an audience before, but now they were alone. It would be so easy, and he _hated_ her so much. He hated her ghastly hair and her grating voice. He hated the way she raised her hand like she was being lifted into the air every time a question was asked in class. He hated the way she walked around the school like she knew everything.

His thoughts flashed to his father, his mother, their home, the people that currently resided in it, the mark on his arm, the task burdened on him. She didn’t know nearly as much as she thought she did.

Granger didn’t answer his question. Instead she leaned into his grip, putting more pressure on the arm holding her down and the wand in his hand and said, “If you’re going to do something, then do it. Malfoy.”

There it was again. That strange twitch at the corner of her mouth. Like she was trying not to smile. He’d seen it before in the classroom and again now. Did she… _want_ him to hurt her? Before he could test the theory a voice spoke from behind in the corridor, taking them both by surprise.

“Hermione? Is that you?” inquired a light and airy voice. Turning his head, he saw that idiot Ravenclaw girl that hung around Potter, Looney Lovegreat or something.

“Yes, Luna. It’s me,” said Granger simply.

“Are you alright? It’s not best to linger in alcoves. They’re full of Nargles, you know,” said the willowy girl.

What the fuck are Nargles? thought Malfoy absentmindedly as he retracted his wand from Granger’s neck and took a step away from the Gryffindor girl. He sighed heavily, turning a quarter, and running a hand over his face before turning back.

“I _will_ find out what you’re up to, Granger,” he said, speaking low to keep the strange Ravenclaw girl from overhearing.

Granger took a bold step towards him till there was barely a hair’s breadth between them. He felt the hot puff of her breath as she asked, “Is that a threat, Malfoy?” 

If he hadn’t been so consumed by his anger at being interrupted, maybe he would have given more thought to Granger’s actions in that moment. But instead he remembered his thoughts on threats and action earlier in McGonagall’s office and shook his head.

“No, Granger. It’s a promise.”

~~~~~

“Are you alright, Hermione?” asked Luna as they walked down the corridor. Well, Hermione walked. Luna sort of skipped, which wasn’t unusual for the airy girl. Hermione didn’t skip but she felt like she could. Or maybe running would be more appropriate. Her veins hummed with excess energy. The energy building and building with the looming threat of combustion if she didn’t do something soon to expel it. 

“Huh?” Hermione asked distractedly, looking over at the blonde beside her. Luna stared back at her, a small, patient smile on her face. “Oh, yes. Yes, I’m fine. Why? Do I seem, not fine?”

Luna frowned at her question, her eyebrows pinching together. “Actually, you appear to have an awful Wrackspurt infestation,” said Luna gravely.

“Do I?” asked Hermione, still unable to fully engage with Luna. She was too busy trying to understand what had just happened. Bringing a hand up to her chest, she felt the bird-like thrumming of her heart beneath her ribs and attempted a frown. Her lips wouldn’t form the shape, though. Once again, a near-death encounter with Draco Malfoy left her feeling giddy and light-headed when she should be feeling shaken, scared, and uneasy.

Luna nodded in a serious manner and answered, “Oh yes. Worst I’ve ever seen. It seems they’ve started to nest in a colony. Is that what you and Malfoy were doing when I found you just now? Trying to get rid of them?”

“Um, yes—” Hermione rolled her lips together, hands pulling the strap of her bookbag more securely onto her shoulder “—yes. That’s all it was.”

Luna nodded again, as if she understood completely. For once Hermione was appreciative of Luna’s nonsensical manner. If anyone else had found her in that alcove with Malfoy there would have been an endless amount of questions. Maybe a teacher or two called. In other words, a nightmare. But Luna lived in her own world of illogical thought and therefore she could give the girl a nonsensical answer without a second thought. 

They had just rounded the corner, arriving outside the Great Hall when a familiar red head came into sight. 

“There you are,” said Ron, walking up to them. “I’ve been looking all over for you and Harry. Where have you been?”

“She was with Draco Malfoy, getting rid of her Wrackspurts. You should have seen them flying out of her ears, suitcases and everything,” Luna informed Ron before Hermione could answer. She shot the Ravenclaw an odd look before turning back to Ron’s seething expression.

“Malfoy? What were you doing with Malfoy?!” cried Ron, eyes beginning to rove her body for any signs of bodily harm.

“Professor McGonagall wanted to talk to us about what happened on Monday in Defense. It was nothing, honestly,” said Hermione, hoping that if she purposefully left out what happened afterwards, Ron would write off Luna’s statement about Wrackspurts as simply the daft girl being just that. 

“That’s all? He didn’t try anything again, did he?” asked Ron, bringing a hand up to cup her cheek. He took a step closer, his actions sweet and caring, but his eyes and voice holding a deep ire. Hermione had seen Ron angry before. Usually it annoyed her. Exasperated her really. His short temper often led to lack of thought. But now with shoulders rigid and body looming over her, she was anything but annoyed.

Hermione felt a pull, low in her gut. She inhaled sharply and swallowed, her tongue going thick and dry. The feverish energy rising insider her gave a sudden pulse. 

“No, he didn’t,” answered Hermione, placing her hand over Ron’s, and bringing it away from her face to twine with her own at their sides. “We’ll see you later, Luna. I need to speak with Ron for a moment.”

Ron knitted his brow in confusion.

“Ah,” drawled Luna knowingly. “To help with the Wrackspurts. I hope he’s as successful as Malfoy was.”

Ron turned his head to look at Luna in question, but Hermione gave a great tug on his arm and pulled from the entrance to the Great Hall and down a connecting corridor before he could think too hard about Luna’s words. She took them down corridor after corridor at a fast pace until she was positive they were alone. It was still early but that didn’t mean students weren’t out and about. So the second-floor corridor, on the opposite end of the castle from the Defense teacher’s office seemed like the safest place to not be interrupted. 

“Hermione, what are we doing here?” asked Ron.

Hermione didn’t answer. Instead she pulled Ron into an alcove, not unlike the very one Draco had threatened her in barely a half hour ago. She could still feel the ache between her shoulder blades where the outcrop of the stone wall had dug into her spine. Surely if she looked, there would be a bruise by tonight, a smattering of violent purples and reds. The thought sent a shock through her body and Hermione shook her head, clearing her mind. She shouldn’t be excited by the prospect of Malfoy’s manhandling leaving marks on her body.

Once hidden within the safety of the dark alcove, Hermione claimed Ron’s lips roughly, distracting herself from the inappropriate thoughts. She kissed him fervently, with a heated impatience that she never had before. Normally she let Ron take the lead in their intimate moments, but the need Hermione felt in that moment was so strong, she couldn’t help but demand a harsher embrace.

Much to her relief Ron met her enthusiasm equally, kissing her like a man starved as he gripped her waist tightly in his hands. Ron’s hands remained steady, anchoring them to the spot, but Hermione’s never stopped moving. The moment their lips met, her hands were roving. From the thick strands of his red hair to the front of his robes; she clung to him, gripping and pulling. She was riding a high of euphoria and searching for more; afraid that she might crash back into the suffocating pit of nothing if she didn’t find another source. Gripping firmly onto the hair at the back of Ron’s head, she tugged, rising up on tiptoe to bring her body as flush to his as possible.

This seemed to take Ron by surprise. His hands travelled from her hips up her back to the tender spot between her shoulder blades. A hiss of pain, easily mistaken for a sound of passion, slipped past her lips, lost in their kiss. Ron pressed harder, reading her reaction for one of pleasure. To Hermione’s horror, it was. The pain should have put a stop to her actions. But instead it only spurred her on, adding a spark to her arousal. Hermione arched her body, pressing further into the painful touch on her bruised spine as she captured Ron’s lower lip between her teeth. She bit it roughly, tugging on the soft and supple flesh before swiping her tongue across it teasingly. 

Ron pulled back at this, looking down at her with an odd expression. Too caught up in the rush of physical intimacy, Hermione didn’t think twice of the look and instead began to kiss Ron’s neck, nipping and sucking the sensitive skin. Ron silently redirected them, taking Hermione by surprise as he pushed her gently against the wall, his tall form boxing her in. Hermione’s pulse skyrocketed.

Wrapping her arms around Ron’s neck, she readied herself for him to claim her roughly. But then he cupped her cheek and kissed her slowly. Brushing her hair behind her ear, he moved from her lips to kiss her neck, his touch light and sweet. It was all very…romantic and entirely not what Hermione wanted. Thinking that Ron might need a bit more guidance, she tried once again to return to the pace of their previous snogging, but Ron was firm about keeping their new softer tone.

A sigh of defeat left Hermione’s throat as she felt the high she’d been riding drain from her body, slowly head to toe being doused in the cold liquid bath of a disillusionment spell. The icy creep of apathy took over her again and then came the guilty burning at the back of her neck. If she didn’t feel so hollow and dried out she would have cried. Eventually Ron made his way back up to her mouth, giving her a few more close-lipped kisses before pulling back to smile down at her lazily. Hermione smiled back, plastering what she hoped looked like a genuine expression on her face.

“Blimey, Hermione. What’s gotten into you?” he asked, giving a small chuckle.

“Just missed you this morning,” Hermione half-lied. “And I knew there was little chance of someone walking in on us in this part of the castle.”

Ron snorted. “Yeah, well I wouldn’t think so. It’s still ridiculously early—” he checked his watch “—Classes still don’t start for another forty-five minutes.”

“What are you doing up then?” she asked him, reaching up to fix his ruffled hair. She suppressed another forlorn sigh. He really was handsome.

“Woke up and Harry was gone. Thought I’d go and find him considering what he’s…well you know how he’s been this term,” sighed Ron.

Hermione nodded. Harry’s paranoia concerning Malfoy had only increased since they’d arrived at school and his recent obsession with the second-hand Potion’s book from Professor Slughorn’s class was of high concern. 

“Let’s go search for him then, yeah?” Hermione suggested, stepping around Ron and out of the alcove.

He followed, falling in step and taking her hand as they walked through the empty corridors. Ron ran a large thumb across the back of her hand and Hermione had the sinking thought that it should illicit some kind of emotion. Didn’t holding hands with your boyfriend at sixteen usually make girls feel all fluttery?

Hermione didn’t feel very fluttering at all. Instead she felt nothing more than the warmth and size of his fingers slotted with hers and how her own hand felt ice-cold and weak in comparison. Hermione wondered if perhaps it was a metaphor for they themselves – Ron warm and large and loving and Hermione cold and lifeless. Hermione grimaced at the silly thought; it was a bit too on the nose for her taste. When the throngs of students started to appear and thicken, they broke apart and Hermione flexed her fingers as she looked around the corridors for any signs of the raven-haired boy with round glasses and lightning bolt scar. Failing to spot him, she gave a dejected huff and looked up at Ron who appeared equally as disheartened. 

Hermione’s stomach gave a loud and painful grumble. She’d been in the process of eating breakfast when McGonagall had approached her. Well, she’d been in the process of _trying_ to eat breakfast. Eating didn’t come as easily when there was no joy in it. These days it felt like she was more or less fuelling her body than enjoying a meal. Like putting gas in a car or batteries in an alarm clock.

“I’m sure he’ll be in class this morning,” said Hermione, trying to sound hopeful. “Let’s get some breakfast, yeah?”

“Alright,” agreed Ron.

Hermione wasn’t surprised. Ron was _always_ hungry.

Walking back into the Great Hall, Hermione idly wondering what she might try to force into her stomach that wasn’t boring porridge when she saw the very boy they’d been looking for. Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, with Ginny, Dean, Seamus, and Neville chatting around him. Ron and Hermione shared a look before approaching the table. Hermione noted Harry’s sour expression.

“Where’ve you been, mate?” asked Ron, sitting down next to Harry. Hermione took a seat opposite them, pretending not to notice the odd look Ron gave her. She supposed as they were something of an item, even if it wasn’t public yet, that he expected her to sit next to him. Hermione, however, wanted nothing more than to put some space between them. If she wasn’t touching Ron or talking to Ron, then she wouldn’t have anything to feel guilty about. There would be no need to fake touches, smiles, or words with less than enthusiastic and honest sentiment. 

Harry looked around the Great Hall suspiciously, his eyes stopping on the Slytherin table. Hermione followed his gaze, breath hitching ever-so-slightly when she saw Draco Malfoy staring back at them – no not them, her. She tore her gaze away, looking back at Harry and Ron across from her. Harry did the same thing, leaning his head down and beginning to speak low so only her and Ron could hear him. Hermione leaned across the table in order to hear him better.

“I was looking at the Marauder’s Map last night and noticed Malfoy lurking through the corridors after hours. I tried to track him, but I lost him on the map – dozed off a bit, actually. Then I saw him again this morning, walking through the halls really early. Decided to try and follow him. You know, see what he was up to.”

Hermione’s blood ran cold. Had Harry seen her and Malfoy together on the map?

“What—” she swallowed thickly “—what did you find?”

“Nothing,” sighed Harry. “He was in the Great Hall when I left my room, so I figured I could leave the map in my room. You know, follow him if he left after breakfast. But when I got here he was gone. Probably doing whatever he was doing last night. Work for Voldemort no doubt.”

“Mate…” Ron said slowly, giving Harry a wary look. “I really think you’ve gotten ahead of yourself. I mean, who in their right mind would make that _ferret_ a bloody Death Eater?”

Harry shrugged agitatedly. “Maybe he’s taking his father’s place now that Lucius Malfoy’s in Azkaban.”

“I don’t know…” said Ron, still holding a sceptical tone.

“Whatever. Believe what you want, but _you_ didn’t see him on the train though. I did. Malfoy’s up to something and even if he wasn’t last night then where did he disappear to this morning?”

“He was with me,” said Hermione suddenly. She’d been uncharacteristically quiet during Harry’s rant. For a number of reasons really. First, she knew that Harry didn’t want to hear what she had to say, and second, she honestly didn’t have the energy to try and corral Harry’s crazy theories anymore. Nothing she said would change his mind. He was stubborn that way.

“What?!” Harry looked at her in bewilderment.

“McGonagall wanted to speak to us about what happened Monday since we’re paired as patrol partners tonight.”

“What?!” It was Ron’s turn to look at her incredulously. Cursing under her breath, Hermione realized she had purposefully neglected to include that information earlier when she ran into Ron. “Hermione, you can’t be expected to spend an entire evening walking the halls with _Malfoy_ ,” continued Ron. “He tried to murder you!”

“You’re exaggerating Ron. He did not try to murder me,” scoffed Hermione, unsure why she was defending Malfoy of all people.

“Ron’s right, Hermione. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone with him,” added Harry, frowning.

“In case the both of your have forgotten, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I don’t need you to protect me. Malfoy and I spoke with Professor McGonagall this morning and we both agreed to be civil to each other. Now, _drop it,_ ” whispered Hermione to Harry and Ron.

They both opened their mouths as if to argue and she fixed them with a hard glare that stopped them short. 

To her relief, Harry and Ron didn’t bring up Malfoy or her scheduled patrol with him for the rest of the school day. Classes went on as usual. Harry and Ron giving their usual effort to classes while Hermione attempted to pretend to pay attention. It was getting harder with each day to keep her mind sharp and present during lectures. The voices of her professors droned on and on like the teachers in a Charlie Brown special. But she kept her ears open for particular questions. The amount of stares she’d gotten, from teachers and students alike, their first week back when she failed to raise her hand at any questions asked in class had been astronomical. Therefore, she made a habit of answering at least one question a class, just to allay any suspicion.

How was she supposed to tell them what was wrong and why she was acting so different when she didn’t even know herself?

It wasn’t until after dinner, when Hermione was in the Gryffindor common room, that the topic of her patrol that night was brought up again.

The old grandmother clock in the circular room chimed the three-quarter hour and Hermione stood, knowing she was due to meet Malfoy in front of the Head’s common room. Patrolling Prefects were required to report in with the Head Boy and Girl at the beginning and end of every patrol. Closing a book on complex warding magic Hermione had been reading in front of the fire, she stood, raising her arms high above her head in a long stretch. The movement caught Ron and Harry’s attention and she watched at they shared a look before Ron spoke.

“Hermione, let me go instead. I don’t mind doing an extra patrol this month, really.”

Hermione let out a short dry laugh. “If you go, Ronald, there will _definitely_ be a murder tonight. Honestly, I’ll be fine,” she reassured him.

“At least let one of us come with you—” Harry stood, following her as she headed towards the portrait hole “—I can hide under the cloak and everything.”

“Absolutely not! Harry, I am not going to entertain this theory that you have about Malfoy while I’m trying to uphold my duties as a school Prefect,” said Hermione in near-outrage. A sudden thought came to mind and she added, “In fact, bring me your cloak and the map. _Now._ ”

Harry hesitated for a moment before letting out a petulant huff and storming upstairs to his dormitory, returning a few moments later with the cloak and map in hand. Hermione took them both from Harry before he could stop her and marched up to her room, ignoring the protests of Harry and Ron that followed her. When she returned to the common room they were both glaring at her.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she warned them. “I’m trying to prove a point here. I don’t trust you not to track or follow me. You’ll get those back tonight when I show up completely _fine_ and _not_ murdered.”

She stomped out of the common room then, nose raised high in the air until the portrait hole closed behind her. Once within the sanctity of the secluded corridor, Hermione let out a long breath. Shoulders dropping from around her ears, Hermione was finally able to relax as she walked towards the Head’s common room. You’re playing a dangerous game here, Hermione told herself. 

Throughout the day she’d been presented with every opportunity to get out of patrolling with Malfoy. Every opportunity she should have taken and every opportunity she had turned down. Why? She wished she knew.

But you do know, said a small little voice in the back of her head.

Hermione tried to push the voice down, but in the end she knew it was right. She couldn’t deny the way Draco made her feel. No, not the _way_ he made her feel but the fact that he made her _feel_ at all.

Every violent outburst. Every painful strike. Every moment where she questioned what he might do next. It brought life back into her body and that intrigued her. And like any true intellectual, she wanted to study it further. Not to mention, every waking hour she spent feeling the deep pit of nothing growing inside her, she craved more and more to feel the way those moments with Malfoy made her feel.

Guilt, the only emotion she seemed to feel these days when she wasn’t engaged in some physical altercation, bloomed at the back of Hermione’s mind. While Ron and Harry were fighting so hard to keep her from danger and to stop another attack from Malfoy, Hermione was actively seeking it out. What kind of a friend did that make her? What kind of a _person_ did that make her?

By the time she reached the Head’s common room, Hermione knew she was late. The unimpressed expression on Malfoy’s face confirmed this and he looked down at the silver watch on his wrist before pushing off the wall in a bored fashion to emphasize the point. Hermione didn’t respond. Didn’t even apologize for her tardiness, which she would have normally done. Instead, she knocked on the Head’s door, informed the Head Boy who answered that they were starting their patrol and turned, beginning the familiar path through the castle.

Despite her insistence and bravado earlier that day about patrolling with Malfoy, Hermione faltered once she was with him. In fact, the longer they walked in silence the more she began to doubt her plan. The pale boy’s threat that morning had led her to believe that he was prepared to attack her again. That was a false assumption however, because an hour and half later and halfway through their patrol route, he had yet to make a single sound. Deciding to give up on her plan, Hermione allowed herself to relax and continue their patrol. After a while she forgot Malfoy was even there, his walk so smooth and quiet compared to her own that he simply melted into the brick and mortar of the castle around her.

It wasn’t until she came upon two fifth year Ravenclaws snogging in an empty classroom, warning them to get back to their dormitories before Filch caught them, that she remembered the Slytherin was there.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” came his drawling voice.

Hermione gave a little jump and turn to find the Slytherin standing nearby, arms crossed with a single white eyebrow raised in curiosity.

“What?” she asked, walking past him to continue their route.

“You barely reprimanded them. Didn’t deduct any points. Not even a bossy lecture—” he followed close at her heel “—have you just grown soft, Granger? Or could you not punish them without feeling like a hypocrite? What with all the late-night snogging you’ve been doing with Weaselbee.”

Hermione bristled at the mention of Ron.

Draco continued, “You know, I really pity you, Granger.”

“Excuse me?” Hermione stopped abruptly, turning on her heel to look back at the smug boy.

Malfoy was staring at her, sly and calculating like a panther stalking its prey from high up in the trees. He stepped closer, his voice taunting, “It’s pathetic really. You spend your years here trailing behind the two biggest idiots I’ve ever met, doing their homework, keeping them out of trouble, letting them walk all over you whenever they please, and all you get in return is a lousy snog from _Weasley_?”

Hermione’s breath hitched at his words and before she knew it her own words were tumbling past her lips, “The only one who deserves pity here is _you,_ Malfoy. You really think anyone in this castle respects you? Sure, you’re smart but you’ll never be the best. You’ll never be the top of the class. And that _kills_ you. It’s obvious your jealous of me. It’s obvious your jealous of Harry. I may have spent my years trailing behind Harry and Ron, but you have too. Only you’ve done everything in your power to try and prove that you’re better than them. Except you’re _not_ and everyone _knows_ that _._ You want to talk about pathetic? How about a deject pureblood heir with a father in fucking prison. That’s—”

Her words were cut short by the harsh and sudden impact of the back of Malfoy’s hand to her cheek. He had hit her. So hard her neck had whipped all the way to the side and little stars painted her vision. Hermione brought a hand up and touched the tender flesh of her cheek with her fingertips. The skin was raw and when she touched it, it sent a second sting coursed through her cheek. And then that sting travelled down her neck, past her chest, and settled low in her stomach. Despite only being slapped across the face, the skin on her entire body tingled and Hermione felt the small bubble of euphoria once again form beneath her ribcage.

She could hear the angry, ragged breath of Malfoy standing in front of her and she didn’t have to look at him to know that his grey eyes had turned a dark molten shade. But she did anyways. Dropping her hand back down to her side, she looked up at the Slytherin boy and muttered, “Do it again.”

The anger in his eyes faded slightly at her statement, replaced by confusion, and he took a half step back, as if to get a better look at her. “What?” he asked.

“Do it again,” Hermione repeated.

“So you can hex my balls off in retaliation?” Malfoy let out a short, sardonic laugh. “I don’t think so. Just admit to yourself that I got the better of you and take the loss.”

It was then that Hermione made one of the most pivotal decisions of her life. At later points in her life she would look back on the moment with a myriad of opinions. In some moments it would feel like the worst thing she’d ever decided. In others, she would resolutely feel as though it was the soundest decision she’d ever made. But in that moment, all Hermione knew was the sting of her cheek, the vibrations in her veins, and the want for more.

Never breaking her gaze, she reached into the pocket of her robes and gripped the wooden handle of her wand. Malfoy moved quickly, grabbing his own wand, but before he could even lift it Hermione had removed her wand from her pocket and dropped it deftly on the stone floor of the castle corridor.

Malfoy’s eyes flickered to the clear statement of her wand on the ground, and then back up to stare into her own. They stayed like that for quite some time. Or at least it felt like that to Hermione. Each moment ticked by like an eternity. Malfoy’s face was now a stone façade, but Hermione could still see the small flashes of confusion, surprise, wariness, as he tried to parse out what her angle was. Did she have an angle? She didn’t really know. All Hermione knew was that she didn’t know what she was doing at all. She only knew what she was feeling, and in that moment she felt alive.

“Do. It. Again,” she said for the final time. And then before she could stop herself, she added in a wavering voice, “Please.”

A change seemed to come over Malfoy, something resolute and decisive and Hermione held her breath. Then she watched as he raised his right hand till it was level with her face, pulled back, and swung. The harsh _thwack_ of skin hitting skin echoed through the empty corridor and the pain of the well-aimed backhand echoed through the emptiness of Hermione’s body. She felt the same sensations as last time. The pain and then the path it took throughout her body. But this time it settled in her chest, right under the scar on her ribs. A small giggle bubbled up from her chest and she let it, tears pooling in the corner of her eyes as she relished in the pain and the feeling.

Malfoy grimaced down at her. “Stop it,” he commanded.

But Hermione didn’t stop. The laughter continued to come and even though she knew she must look mad, she didn’t care. She just felt _so_ _good_.

“I said, stop it,” Malfoy commanded again, pushing her hard.

Hermione gasped, pulled from her moment of madness only to be consumed by the same influx of energy that filled her body earlier that day. And just like earlier that day she felt the overwhelming need to dispel that energy. So, with all her might she push Malfoy back. He stumbled a bit, shock flashing across his face as if he was affronted that Hermione Granger, of all people, had just laid her hands on him. The shock was quickly replaced with anger and then he pushed her once again.

They grappled, shoving and pushing each other until it wasn’t good enough. Malfoy grabbed hold of her arms the, attempting to pin her to the wall, but Hermione fought back. Fuelled by the exhilaration of his harsh attack, she kicked and slapped and squirmed in his grasp. With a particularly deft swipe of her legs she managed to knock him off of his feet. Unfortunately, his tight grip on her forearms meant that she went down with him and before she knew it, she was lying flat on her back, arms pinned to the ground beside her head. She kicked her legs and bucked her hips attempting to free herself, but Malfoy was quicker, placing a knee on the inside of both her thighs and pinning them down as well.

Rendered immobile, Hermione could only glare up at the boy atop her as she breathed heavily from exertion. She was sure she looked a mess, but the fact that Malfoy looked just as dishevelled gave her a sort of satisfaction. His usually neat blonde hair had fallen over his forehead and into his eyes. His pale face was flushed pink from their fighting and his pink lips were parted slightly. He looked…well the only word for it was devastatingly handsome. Hermione’s throat went dry and an involuntary jolt of arousal shot from the top of her head down to the juncture between her thighs making her gasp.

Malfoy stared down at her hard, the air between them thick and heady. The hot air of their mingled breaths mixed, and Hermione watched as his eyes flickered down to her lips. They both moved, bridging the gap between them.

The kiss was rough and unforgiving. A mixture of lips, teeth, and tongue that bruised, suckled, and bit. Shared breath passed between them as they consumed one another in a frenzy. Neither came up for air, instead they relied solely on the small snippets of oxygen stolen from the other’s lungs. Hermione let out an unabashedly wanton moan into Malfoy’s mouth when she felt his tongue swipe across the roof of her mouth. She writhed against him; arms still held firmly to the ground. His tight grip on her never let up as they continued to kiss, and Hermione found the almost painful constriction merely heightened her arousal.

Her body bucked, but this time only to get closer to him. Malfoy shifted his knees off of her thighs and settled heavily into the space between them. Hermione preened, lifting her hips up in search of friction. Malfoy pulled away from her mouth with a thick and gravelly moan when they made contact.

“Fuck,” he whispered, moving his lips down to her neck where he began a brutal assault of the sensitive skin. His teeth nipped along the column of her throat, tongue following quickly behind to sooth the aching flesh. “Merlin, I fucking _hate_ you,” Malfoy groaned, grinding his pelvis into her own.

Hermione felt he the hard outline of him press against her through their robes and let out a small whimper. Her breath came in quick pants, but it didn’t prevent her from answering back, “I hate you too.” 

“Good,” answered Malfoy against her lips before pulling her in for another heavy session of snogging. He moved his hands, placing both of her wrists in one hand before bringing his now free hand down to grope her body. He was anything but gentle as he felt her through her robes, fingers gripping tightly as they rutted into each other on the cold castle floor. His hand had just begun to pull her robes aside when a resonant _meow_ sounded from down the corridor.

They froze. Hermione gasped and, knowing that sound anywhere, turned her head to see Crookshanks, the caretaker’s cat. It was like being doused with ice-cold water. The pair broke apart, Malfoy flying off of Hermione and standing to his feet so quickly, you’d have thought he had wings. Hermione stood as well, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her robes. Like deer caught in the headlights, she and Malfoy stared at each other for a long moment, both equally shocked at the events that had just transpired.

Then, without thinking, Hermione turned and ran. 


End file.
